Chapter 11
LUCA
Idon't sleep.
I stand outside her door in the hallway, listening. Waiting for I don't know what. Maybe for her to cry. Maybe for her to scream. Maybe for her to try the door and realize I meant what I said about not needing to lock it.
She does none of those things.
Later, I hear the shower turn on. It runs for a long time. When it finally stops, I picture her standing in the steam, touching the marks I left on her skin. Cataloging the damage.
The thought makes my cock hard again.
I force myself to walk away before I go back in there and add to those marks. Not because she needs rest. Because I need her broken in slowly, not shattered all at once. Rush this and she'll shatter. I need her compliant, not broken.
I listen to her move around, then settle. She goes back to bed. Smart girl. She'll need her strength.
I go to the kitchen and make coffee. I pour myself a cup and stand at the windows overlooking the city.
The sun starts to come up, painting the skyline in shades of pink and gold.
Manhattan waking up to another day where most people will never know that I killed a Bratva lieutenant and his bodyguards in an alley behind a warehouse in Brighton Beach and killed the guy who was tailing me later.
And later that night I fucked the woman I've been obsessing over for months until she screamed my name.
That she's sleeping twenty feet away in my penthouse and has no idea I'll do worse than kill to keep her here.
My phone buzzes. A text from Sal.
Petyr Morozov is making noise. Wants a meet.
I type back one-handed.
No meetings. We're past that.
He's threatening to go to the Commission.
The Commission. Five families sitting around a table pretending they still run this city the way they did in the eighties.
They'll listen to Morozov's complaints, nod sympathetically, and then tell him to handle his own problems. The Bratva isn't part of the old agreements.
They're interlopers, tolerated because they bring in money but are never fully accepted.
Going to the Commission is a desperate move.
That's good.
Let him. Won't change anything.
I set the phone down and finish my coffee. I check the time. Early morning. She should be waking up soon.
I start another pot and pull out the oat milk from the fridge.
The good stuff, organic, the brand she buys at that overpriced market three blocks from her apartment.
I've been keeping some on hand for weeks—tossing it out when it expires and buying fresh—along with the dark roast she prefers and the specific granola she eats for breakfast.
I track every detail. Every preference. Every routine.
I make her latte the way she likes it. Extra shot. Foam art on top because I learned how months ago when I was studying everything about her. The heart shape comes out perfect—a reminder of what she can't escape.
I'm setting it on the kitchen island when I hear her door open.
She appears in the hallway wearing one of my shirts. It's too big on her, hanging to mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up. Her hair is damp from the shower. No makeup. She looks young and vulnerable and mine.
She stops when she sees me. Her eyes flick to the coffee, then back to my face. Calculating. Looking for the angle.
She won't find one.
"Morning," I say.
She doesn't answer. Just stands there like prey trying to decide if running will trigger the predator.
Smart girl.
I gesture to the latte. "Made you coffee."
She moves slowly, coming into the kitchen but keeping the island between us. She picks up the cup and takes a sip. She shakes her head. "You know how I take my coffee."
"I know everything about you, Francesca.
" I lean against the counter, watching her.
"What you drink, what you eat, what you read before bed.
The route you take to work. The Thai place you order from on Thursdays.
Your favorite patient at the hospital is Mrs. Kowalski on the fourth floor.
You visit her whenever you have time. You bring her the same almond biscotti you buy from that Italian bakery on Mulberry Street. "
Her hand tightens on the cup. "How long have you been watching me?"
"Since the night you patched me up and didn't call the cops."
The cup goes down on the counter. "That was months ago."
"Over three months."
She goes pale. "You've been stalking me for over three months."
"Protecting you. Learning you. Owning you." I let that sink in. "Call it what you want. Doesn't change what it is."
"You've been following me, learning my routines, planning this. That's not protection. That's obsession." Her voice shakes. Not with fear. With controlled anger. Good. I can work with anger.
I don't deny it. Can't deny it. Won't deny it. "Both things can be true."
She laughs, sharp and bitter. "You said we needed to talk."
"We do." I push off the counter. "Sit down."
"I'm fine standing."
"Francesca." I let the warning into my voice. Not loud. Quiet is more dangerous. "Sit down."
She sits. Slow, deliberate. Making it clear she's choosing to comply, not being forced. I almost smile. Even now she's trying to maintain some scrap of control.
It's cute, but it won't last.
I take the stool across from her. "You want to know who I am. What I do. Why you're in danger."
"Yes."
"I'm an enforcer for the Outfit. I hurt people for money.
I collect debts, I send messages, I solve problems that can't be solved with words.
When someone needs to disappear, I make it happen.
I've been doing this since I was a kid. My father brought me into the life.
His father before him. It's the family business. "
She's very still, watching me, taking it in.
"The Bratva is the Russian mob. They've been trying to move into our territories for years.
Drugs, gambling, construction. We've had an uneasy truce, but it's been breaking down.
A few weeks back, they hit one of our bookmaking operations.
Killed some of our guys. My boss, Don Marco, wanted to send a message back.
I was supposed to make an example of one of theirs. "
"The man you killed the other morning," she says quietly.
"Orlov. Bratva lieutenant. I took him and his bodyguards in an alley behind a warehouse in Brighton Beach." I hold her gaze. "That's what started the war."
"Why?"
"Don Marco ordered the hit. But I was supposed to do it quietly. One clean kill to send a message." I lean forward. "Instead I did it in broad daylight. Killed his bodyguards too. Made it messy."
"Why would you do that?"
I don't answer right away. Can't tell her the real reason. That I was already on edge, already thinking about her, already making mistakes. "Lost my head. Made it personal when it should have been business."
Her breath catches. "And now there's a war."
"And now there's a war. Then I had another problem to handle after my meeting with Don Marco." I don't elaborate on the fourth kill. She doesn't need those details. Not yet. "Multiple bodies in one day. A quiet hit turned into a declaration of war."
She turns. "How many people have you killed?"
I don't hesitate. "More than forty. I stopped keeping an exact count years ago."
The number hangs in the air between us. She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"Do you remember them?"
"Every single one." I stand and walk toward her.
"The first one. The last one. The ones who fought back.
The ones who begged. The ones who deserved it and the ones who didn't. Each one has a face, a name, a reason.
" I stop close enough that she has to tilt her head back to look at me.
"I don't lose sleep over them. But I remember them all. "
She's quiet for a long moment. Then she asks the question I've been waiting for. "Why me? Really."
I stop a few feet away from her, close enough to touch but giving her the illusion of space. "You want the truth?"
"I think I deserve it."
"That night in the ER, I had a gunshot wound in my shoulder. I should have gone to our doctor, but he was out of town and it needed treatment. So I went to the closest hospital and fed you some bullshit story about a nail gun accident."
I can still see it. The fluorescent lights. The blood on my shirt. Her hands on my shoulder, gentle but efficient, cleaning the wound.
"You looked at me and you didn't see a criminal. You didn't see a monster. You saw someone who needed help and you helped me. No judgment. No questions. Just compassion." I move closer. "You lied on the report. You protected me."
"I didn't know what you were."
"You knew enough. You saw the gunshot wound. You're not stupid, Francesca. You knew I was dirty and you saved me anyway."
She shakes her head. "That doesn't explain months of stalking."
"I went back to check on you, to make sure you didn’t get into trouble for helping me.
Then I went back again. And again. I told myself I was making sure you were safe.
That it was about gratitude." I reach out and tuck a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
She flinches but doesn't pull away. "I was lying to myself.
Truth is, I couldn't stay away. You got under my skin that night.
Infected me. The way you looked at me, the way you touched me.
Like I was worth saving. Like I was human. "
"So you decided I was yours."
"No. You were already mine. I just decided to stop pretending otherwise."
She stands and pulls away from my touch. "This is insane."
"Probably."
"You can't just keep me here."
"Watch me." I let my hand drop. "The Bratva knows about you now. They'll use you to get to me. So you stay here. With me. Where I can see you. Where I can control who gets close to you."
"For how long?"
"Forever." I hold her gaze. "The Bratva threat just makes it easier to justify."
She looks away from me, jaw tight. She's thinking, processing, trying to find the angle that makes this make sense.
There isn't one.
"What happens now?" she finally asks.